Compromise: I Remember You Well
by TorinoBunny
Summary: What if Rorschach had decided differently in the wreckage of Karnak? Why would he make such a choice, and what would it mean for himself, Daniel and Veidt's brave new world? Daniel/Walter, spoilers for the graphic novel.
1. but for me, you would make an exception

**Author's Note:** First fic in a new fandom. Graphic Novel-verse with heavy influences from the movie portrayals, I hope that this piece will have something to satisfy both the forgiving purists and the moviefen. This idea is my attempt at translating Leonard Cohen's song "Chelsea Hotel No. 2" into prose form, as well as an experiment in narrative stream-of-conciousness.

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1. _"but for me, you would make an exception"_

He should have known better.

**

It was a marvel that they were even alive. As he stood in the chamber, the great Ozymandias' temple to media, and saw the aftermath of his hideous plan (a Holocaust of millions in the name of a better world, how very familiar to Daniel Dreiberg), he thought that Veidt would kill them all where they stood. But when all Veidt required was their silence (and he agreed, of course he agreed, he would rather damn himself than the world), then he thought that Veidt would kill Rorschach where he stood. For surely there was no way that the masked man would compromise, not even to save the world, no matter how much Dan hoped he would, how many frightened, pleading looks were cast at his roiling visage, _for God's sake, man, just don't say anything, don't say anything or they'll kill you, they'll kill you where you stand, Rorschach, for pity's sake, for MY sake, PLEASE..._

"Hurm," Rorschach grunted under his breath before whispering, as if it hurt to say so, "_Fine_." Without another word, he turned and walked quickly to the enormous double doors, clenched fists in pockets, shoulders hunched in tension, as if he was set to explode if he remained a single moment longer.

Dan was thunderstruck. He remained motionless for a moment, barely believing his good fortune (_thank God, thank God, we're alive, thank God_) before hurrying after Rorschach. A glance over his shoulder revealed a blank stare from Jon, his mind already set to higher and farther things, a weak smile from Laurie as she drifted to Jon's side (pulled once more into the well of his terrible gravity, and Dan was surprised at how he wasn't surprised at all), and a nod from Adrian that was both benediction and warning. And then he was outside, cringing again against the blast of snow, following Rorschach's tracks to the ridiculous hoverscooters. The cold made his lungs ache with each breath, a beautiful pain that reminded him with every step, _alive, alive, we are all alive, and oh, how very sweet it is._

For the hour it took to warm up Archie's engines, and at least six hours into their flight, Rorschach slept. He had just stripped off his trenchcoat, curled up on one of the two medbay cots with his back to the curved metal wall and slept. At least, Dan hoped he was sleeping; it was impossible to tell with his mask still on, the blots moving sluggishly in the still-frigid air. But Dan hoped he was asleep. He didn't want to contemplate the alternative: Rorschach staring at him behind a wall of shifting latex, eyes colder than Antarctica, flaying him for his weakness, his compromise, and hating him for forcing Rorschach to do the same. Dan finally started Archie's engine, set an auto-pilot course for home and stripped off the majority of his costume. He turned his goggles in his hands, debating whether or not to say something, to test whether Rorschach was actually awake, but in the end he just grabbed a blanket from the med shelf and curled up on the spare cot, facing the wall. _Coward_.

Six hours later, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, Dan awoke to find Rorschach staring at him. There was no mistaking it this time; the smaller man was sitting upright, elbows resting on his knees, clenched fists dangling between them, shifting mask pointed directly at Dan. Dan sat up slowly, swaths of blanket clenched tightly in both hands, afraid. Afraid of death, of abandonment, of that gravelly voice condemning him, of unseen eyes casting him aside as completely as if he were thrown from the craft itself. So he sat, silent in cowardice, until the quiet could no longer be borne.

"Why?" His raspy voice did not surprise himself, but the question did. He'd meant to say something neutral to try and diffuse the situation, a comment on the time or how far they had traveled, but the question slipped past his lips without his even noticing, others crowding in behind his teeth. _Why, Rorschach? Why in God's name did you make that choice, when you said you'd never compromise? What does this mean, for you, for us? Does it mean anything at all?_

Rorschach got up from the cot, moving to stand over Dan, the rasp of his breathing just audible over the drone of Archie's engines. Dan's knuckles whitened over the cloth he held as he tried not to flinch. He'd stared down hired killers, mob bosses, the very dregs of humanity without fear, but this... this was his friend, his _partner_, his last link to the world he had known, before the end came and left chunks of reality scattered across the landscape, waiting to be remade in Vedit's image and likeness. And, Dan realized with a sick certainty, he would rather die than lose that link.

"Why?" Rorschach echoed, but the tone was not mocking. He sounded almost... contemplative, as if he was searching for the answer himself. He regarded Dan for another long moment until, with a slight straightening of his spine, he seemed to come to a decision. Rorschach reached up and peeled his mask away, slowly and carefully as if it were a matted bandage. The face beneath was even more bruised than he remembered, swollen and lopsided after the fight with Ozymandias. Asymmetrical. Imperfect.

Human.

"Not stupid, Daniel," he grated and, with the speed of one who was close to changing his mind, grasped Dan's undershirt in both hands and kissed him.

If Dan had ever contemplated such an occurrence (which he hadn't, of _course _he hadn't, what kind of asinine thought was that?), he would have expected Rorschach's kiss to be hard, brutal, passing sentence and exacting punishment in one fell swoop. Instead, the only roughness came from the rasp of Rorschach's stubble against his own. The kiss was hesitant and chaste, sweet in its clumsy honesty, pledging... something, something Dan couldn't grasp, couldn't bear to contemplate. And when those shy lips began to pull away, Dan couldn't bear it any longer.

Hands leaving the blanket, he slid them loosely around Rorschach (_No,_ Dan corrected himself, _not Rorschach, not here. Walter._) pulling the other man down to kneel on the cot, Dan's mouth coaxing another kiss from him, holding him through nearly imperceptible tremors. Dan had never imagined this before the end of the world, not even once, but now, after the end of the world (he eased Walter down to lie at his side, afraid to break the cautious silence, thumb caressing the other man's bruised jawline until Archie's everpresent hum lulled them both back to sleep), now he would rather die than lose this one last piece. Now that he knew (or thought he knew) what it had cost the smaller man to purchase it for him.

Dan had thought he had his answers, thought he had Walter's reasons. He should have known better.

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Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!


	2. and that was New York

Author's Note: I actually finished this yesterday, but I've been going back and forth like mad, puttering and tweaking and generally behaving like a big girl's blouse before I threw up my hands and said "Screw it!" I do feel a bit justified in my nervousness; not only is this my first attempt at writing anything sexual (tame and discreet though it is), considering the characters and their megatons of issues, writing anything sexual about this pairing is like navigating a deadly swamp. Strewn with landmines. And infested by dragons. (Please don't throw me down an elevator shaft for this.)

Thank you to my reviewers for their mostly encouraging words. Hope you enjoy this as well! *hides*

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2._ "those were the reasons, and that was New York"_

It might have saved him some bruises, Dan decided in hindsight, if he hadn't said that he didn't have to do it.

Upon grounding Archie in the Owl's Nest and climbing the stairs to find Dan's brownstone looted, furniture shredded and scarred, lock kicked in by someone other than Rorschach, the pair didn't even suggest cleaning up. Instead, they walked out into the weak winter afternoon, turning without discussion towards the inner city. Ground Zero.

They didn't make it all the way there. Almost to the center of destruction, as the corpses began to stack up more and more thickly, blood drying in crimson pools in the gutters, Dan suddenly swallowed, and swallowed again, and bent over to vomit without fanfare onto the wheels of an abandoned limousine, waiting for the powerful men and beautiful women who would never come again. After a moment's hesitation, Walter gripped the back of Dan's collar, holding him steady as he heaved, pulling him in the aftermath across the street and into the empty hotel. Shivering in reaction, Dan could only follow Walter mutely up the flights of stairs, ignoring the strain in his knees, not commenting as Walter kicked in the door of the penthouse without so much as a knock. "No need to go closer," Walter said without preamble. "Can see fine from here." And sure enough, out of the wall of windows in the light of the setting sun, the edge of Times Square could be seen, one gigantic tentacle snaking limply from behind a building.

"Jesus." Dan swallowed again and turned away from the sight, walking into the bedroom and sitting heavily on the plushly appointed bed. "Jesus," he croaked again, pulling off his glasses and scrubbing his sour mouth with his coat sleeve. "What the hell are we doing here, Rorschach? We can't... there's nothing here. Nothing." His voice died in his throat and he wished he could call the words back. The last thing he wanted was to call up questions, to remind Rorschach of what he'd given up, what he'd compromised for... _for what_?

If Rorschach noticed Dan's slip, he didn't comment. Instead, he simply came to stand by Dan, hands in trenchcoat pockets, shoulders bowed under the weight of silence. "Can't despair, Daniel," he said quietly. "Not when there's life." But the sentiment carried no warmth, weak as the November sun. Death was too close, pressing in on all sides, choking them with New York's unnatural silence. And Dan needed, needed to know that there was life, that there was heat and light and love, that _something _had survived the labor pangs of Veidt's utopia, something worth this terrible silence. He _needed_ it.

So he reached out for it.

Rorschach (_no, not Rorschach, not with those sad, silent eyes. Walter_), Walter came to him with the same trembling hesitance he remembered from Archie, kneeing his way onto the bed, Dan's hands slipping under the trench and suitcoat, lips slipping gently over Walter's, both seeking warmth. Gloved hands rose, hovering like skittish sparrows, before resting gently on Dan's shoulders. When Walter's tongue clumsily forced its way into Dan's mouth, too rough and quick, Dan wanted to pull away, bile still burning in his throat from his earlier heaving. But Walter's mouth was sweet with chewing sugar and innocence, and Dan forgot to protest, forgot anything but the sweetness of nostalgia, of this one last piece of the old world.

Clothes were soon strewn across the deep pile carpet (a surprising feat since their mouths barely seemed to disconnect). Dan's fingers skimmed lightly over more freckles than he'd ever imagined, and the idle thought made him smile crookedly against Walter's mouth. The smile disappeared as Walter's hand crept down, down, only to freeze at Dan's navel, calloused palm barely touching the skin, stubbled throat working as he swallowed furiously, striving for a blank expression to hide behind. Dan was good at recognizing fear. He'd lived with it for longer than he cared to remember.

"Hey," he said softly, trying to smile again as Walter's eyes snapped to his. "Hey, it's all right. You don't have to." A tiny sliver of Dan was disappointed at the waste of a good erection, but when weighed against the alternative, he would rather never have sex again for the rest of his life than have Walter afraid of him (of him! Of all the things to fear!).

However, Dan had forgotten that this man, this Walter, was still Rorschach on some level, the man who kicked in locks when he could pick them just as easily, and who stole sugar cubes when he knew Dan bought them in catering packs specifically for him, and who never _ever_ backed down from _anything_, if only out of sheer stubborn contrariness. And it was that man who frowned at Dan, "hurm"ed irritably in the back of his throat and, too fast for Dan to stop, ducked his head and took half of Dan's flagging erection straight down his throat.

And it was good, too good, too much, far too much for Dan to think of contemplating. Walter had barely remembered to shield his teeth with his lips, and the resulting almost-scrape down his length sent firecrackers sparking down Dan's spine. He moaned, loud, splintering the silence like new ice in the sun. Walter jerked his head back at the sound, staring at Dan, muscles tensed as if expecting a blow. Dan tried to think of something reassuring, something calming, but all his lust-fogged brain could manage was "Oh, God, don't stop, please, don't-" That was good enough for Walter, who once again bent his head and applied himself, still clumsy but less hesitant, brows furrowed in almost comical concentration.

Dan would have found it funny, would have normally been glad for the chance to laugh, but he was too busy feeling, feeling all of the things he'd forgotten in the hours since they landed in the silent city, in the hours since they left the silent snows, lifetimes ago. Here, in this cold bedroom, in the dying gasps of a bleeding sun, Walter's red hair blazed like a signal fire. It called Dan's fingers to wind around surprisingly soft curls, Walter warming him with his hair, with his mouth, with his- _love, love, I love you, I love you Walter, oh God, I'm alive, you're alive, you're all I have left, all I have, I love you so much- Walter! _"Wha- God!"

Dan's orgasm came over him without warning, none for himself, less for Walter. The smaller man reared back again, falling on his side to shudder and spit over the edge of the bed, finally curling up on his side with his back to Dan. Gasping in the aftermath of gratification (and revelation), Dan released his deathgrip on the hotel coverlet and pushed himself onto his elbows, arming sweat from his eyes. "Oh, God, Ror- Walter. Walter, that was so... so..." Only then did he see Walter hunched in on himself, the tremors plain even without his glasses, and his heart dropped to his stomach. "Walter," he tried, reaching out a careful hand to stroke that back, to trace the freckles that had surprised him so, but the other man's voice broke through the silence.

"Daniel. Don't."

It was rough and raw, familiar, but the same shudder that shook his spare frame had crept into his voice, betraying his identity. Walter pretending to be Rorschach. Dan ignored him, laying a hand against his shoulders, feeling the heat of emotion and arousal on his skin, as if a fire consumed him from within.

Walter growled again, louder. "Daniel. _Don't_."

"Why not?" Dan asked.

Walter made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Ehhnk. Don't touch me. Unclean."

"Why? Because of this?" Dan mentally kicked himself; he should have seen this coming. Before the world ended, before he was Walter, Rorschach had made no secret of his opinion about homosexuality. But Dan knew better than to question this brave new world, with its brave new rules, and only one broken, precious person in it. "Hell, Walter, that's no reason. I mean, hell, I... I'll do it to you if you just-"

"Don't touch me!" With a vicious jerk, Walter, rolled over to kneel on the bed, facing Dan, eyes blazing in fury. Dan didn't know if the anger was meant for Dan or for Walter himself.

"Hey, now, hang on a minute." Dan reached out a placating hand, entreating for peace.

Walter jerked away again, teeth bared. "Don't. Get taint on you. Aren't meant for... whores."

And with that, all of Dan's pity drained away, anger rushing to take its place. How could he say such a thing? How could he take something meaningful, something Dan had treasured, and make it sound so... ugly? "Is that how you see me?" Dan spat, words twisting bitterly in his mouth. "As someone who doesn't care where I get it, like some kind of... common whoremonger?

Walter's head snapped up, eyes wide. "No!" he said instantly; the thought had obviously never crossed what remained of his mind. "Good man. Not unclean. Not filth. Not... weak."

"No?" Dan echoed mockingly, watching compact muscles flinch under pale flesh spotted with freckles and bruises, glad for it. "Because I enjoyed the hell out of that, you know, out of what _we _did. _Together_. If that's what you call weak, and unclean, if you think you're a whore for that, then that makes me a whoremonger, right?"

"_Shut up_."

Dan had seen hardened felons piss themselves in alleys at the sound of that voice, but he was too angry to care, too angry to stop. How dare he, how _dare_ he?? "That's what you think of me, right?" he goaded, twisting the knife. "Just another piece of trash, wallowing in scum like- like a dog in the street! That's what Daniel Dreiburg is to you, isn't it? Go on, say it! _Say it_!"

"Shut _up_!" With only that as warning, Walter launched himself across the bed, outstretched hands reaching for the soft flesh at Dan's neck.

Dan was out of shape, softer than he had once been, slower. But he'd sparred with Rorschach in the past more times than he could count, and muscle memory ran deep. Rolling his shoulders to the side, he grabbed one of Walter's wrists, wrenched it behind his back and twisted, pressing down with all his weight. Caught off his guard, Walter's thin shoulders hit the mattress, breath leaving him in a "whuf!" as his legs flailed for purchase off the edge of the bed. "_Raaaarl_! Let me _up_, Dreiburg!" he roared, twisting and bucking.

"No!" Dan retorted, seeking better purchase.

"GET OFF!"

"_NO_!" The fury in his voice surprised Walter as much as himself, the smaller man going still beneath him. Dan pressed the advantage, punctuating his words with hard shakes of Walter's shoulders. "Now I get to talk, and for once, for once in your miserable little life, you're going to shut up and listen until I'm done! Understand?" Dan took the silence beneath him as acquiescence and blazed on. "I don't really care what you think. I don't care what anyone thinks. Not about this. Maybe not about anything ever again, I don't know, but not about this. And you can disagree with me about anything else. You can insult my age, my weight, my life. You can call me anything, say anything, you can say the moon is made of green fucking cheese, you contrary bastard, and I won't care. But you do _not_ get to say this is unclean, that this makes you somehow _less_. Because this..." and Dan gasped, bleeding, dying with the awesome finality of saying it aloud, "because you, _you_, Walter Kovacs, are all I have left anymore in this whole _fucking_ world.

"I love you, you son of a bitch," Dan croaked hoarsely, blind with tears, lips ghosting over the freckled skin beneath him, tracing a bruise. "I love you, and I'd give anything, do anything for you. But I won't let you take this. Not this." He sobbed, pressing his forehead between Walter's shoulderblades. "Please, not this."

He didn't know how long he lay there, gasping against Walter's hot skin, mouthing prayers and devotions to flesh that burned with life, seared from the inside out. "Daniel," Walter finally said, his voice strained with something unnamed. "Let me up. Please."

Dan let go of Walter's wrist, rolling onto his side, waiting for the inevitable blows, uncaring. But he found himself wrapped in strong, spare arms, thin, sweet lips pressed to his, one rough hand taking his and guiding it down, and finally, after moans and grunts and whispers thick with tears, a single gasp as wetness spilled over Dan's tired hand.

Exhausted, battered, cried and fought and fucked out, the two men managed to pull themselves up the bed and pull the blankets and duvets over them, rich, soft sheets caressing filthy bodies, fingers tracing skin more softly than finest Egyptian cotton. They slept, their breathing chasing the silence away until the sun rose again, gilding the carcass of New York City.

The first day, Dan thought, of many.

He should have known better.

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Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!


	3. we are ugly, but we have the music

**Author's Notes**: Third chapter of four, we're almost there, folks. Apologies in advance to any Adrian Veidt fans; while I do love him dearly, megalomaniacal pseudo-messiah that he is, I can't help but imagine that his attempt at a "stronger loving world" would turn out a lot like a different Alan Moore graphic novel. (in b4 WRONG COUNTRY, BETCH.) Also, apologies for my meandering threads o' symbolism. If all goes according to plan, chapter four should wrap them up and (hopefully) answer any and all questions in the reader's mind.

Thank you again to all of my wonderful reviewers! Your interest helps to keep me going, and I hope that you continue to enjoy my efforts!

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3._ "we are ugly, but we have the music"_

There wasn't any hope. But there was life, and the hope that hope would come.

President Nixon and FEMA finally decided to stop peace talks with Russia long enough to deal with their own devastated city. National Guard convoys escorted in scores of semi-trucks, bearing food and fresh water and blankets for the survivors, most of the trailers stamped with a familiar purple "V." Dan swallowed at the sight; of course Veidt's hand would be in this, guiding his new utopia through its labor pangs. Standing in the water line, Dan cast a quick glance over his shoulder, judging Walter's reaction, but there was nothing there to judge. Walter's freckled face was impassive, blank as any mask. Dan didn't know if this was a good thing or not.

High, reedy shouts sounded from behind them, further down the line, followed by running sneakers on concrete. "Robbie! Robbie, give it back, that's mine!"

Before Dan could process what was going on, Walter's hand shot out to the side and grasped a running boy mid-stride, pulling him back by the collar. The boy was about eight years old, blond, plump and dirty, staring up at Walter with a mixture of terror and defiance with two Hershey bars clenched in his fist.

"Robbie!" The voice cried again, and a tiny girl caught up to the scene, younger than the boy, perhaps six. Just as blond, just as dirty; a sister, perhaps? "Robbie, you jerkface, that's mine!"

Walter looked down at the two candy bars in Robbie's fist, his mouth tightening slightly at the corners. "Hurm. Ration packs only come with one of those," he said flatly. "Where'd you get the other one?"

"Fuck you, faggot!" the boy shouted, his voice shrill with youth and defensiveness.

"It's mine!" Robbie's sister cried, pointing a dramatic finger. "He stole it from me!"

Walter made another, lower noise in the back of his throat, one that Dan recognized. One that frightened him. "Hey, come on now, Ror- Walter," he said, low and calm, praying that he was talking to Walter, praying that what he was imagining wouldn't happened, afraid of what it would mean.

But it didn't happen. Instead, Walter's free hand shot out and snatched both candy bars from the boy's grasp, tucking them into his trenchcoat pocket over Robbie's protests. Finally, he reached out, seized Robbie's ear with his free hand and twisted sharply before pushing the boy away. Robbie howled, more in surprise than in pain. "Ow! That hurt, you fucking Mick!"

"Nothing broken," Walter said in reply, his voice unchanging. "Stealing is wrong. Do it again, you get worse. Get back in line."

Robbie sniffed, then spat half-heartedly on the ground at Walter's feet before trudging away, sneakers scuffing over cold concrete.

The little girl stood with eyes and mouth wide, staring at Walter in near reverence. "Wow," she said, "that was so cool! I mean, Robbie's such a nancy; he does that to me all the time. Serves him right, jerkface." She scuffed her own sneakers over the asphault and asked, suddenly shy, "Um, can I have my Hershey bar back, mister?"

And then, a miracle. Walter's mouth quirked at one end, just enough for Dan to notice, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out both bars. "Here."

"Hey, thanks!" Her brown eyes lit up at the sight of her windfall, tucking them away into the pocket of her downy coat.

"Where are your parents?" Dan couldn't help asking, fearing the answer.

The girl jerked a thumb over her tiny shoulder. "By the clothes washers." _Thank God, thank God, they aren't alone_. "Mom and Dad told me and Robbie to keep their spots in line. Dad said we could eat our Hershey's before dinner just this once, and then Robbie stole mine and ran away." She smiled widely, a hopscotch of missing baby teeth, as rare and beautiful as a rose on a dungheap. Dan wondered if she really understood what was going on, what was being held from her. "I bet he won't do it again!" As if remembering her manners, the little girl turned to Walter again, extending a careful hand. "My name is June," she said solemnly. "What's yours?"

Walter tucked his hands back into his pockets, looking pointedly at her hand. "Shouldn't talk to strangers," he said instead. "Go get back in line."

June's smile fell, but then brightened again. "But you're not a stranger," she insisted. "You saved my candy bar. You're a hero, like Ozy... Ozymandias!" Dan couldn't suppress a wince. Walter did nothing.

Calls of "June? Juuuune!" were heard from behind them, and the little girl turned to go. "Bye, Mr. Hero!" she called over her shoulder. "Thanks again!"

The man behind Walter, a broad Slav with a wide nose and crooked teeth, chuckled to himself. "Cute kid," he said genially. "Glad you gave that little bastard what for, eh? He needs to learn how to behave."

"Everyone does," Walter said flatly, more to himself than anyone else. "Morality must be learned, chosen. Not born into people. Against human nature."

And Dan wanted to say something to that, something to bring back the tiny flame that June had lit in his eyes, but the Red Cross volunteer called for him to get his water ration, and Dan had to step away.

**

They decided to stay. They could have left New York easily. Dan had managed his father's fortune well over the years, living a simple life on the generated interest and leaving the principle investments largely untouched (unless Archie needed some large and custom part that he couldn't build himself, but that was very rare). They could have gone somewhere quiet and secluded, surrounded by green, growing things where no one knew they were ex-vigilantes or escaped felons or anyone but refugees from a dead world, the horror of stained concrete far from their minds. But they stayed, volunteering for clean-up crews, going door-to-door like gruesome evangelists to wrap the dead in plastic, too late to warm them with bloodless pamphlets that the end was nigh. For who would care about who they were, who they had been? That slate had been wiped clean. The end had already come. (Except for one last piece.)

In the cold days after Thanksgiving, the billboards started going up. Dan sat on the curbside outside a half-cleaned tenement building, their crew breaking for lunch, unwrapping cold turkey sandwiches with too much mayonnaise, no one glancing at the growing stack of bagged corpses ready to be shipped out to the cremation pits in New Jersey, just more trash. Those first few days, Dan had been sure that he'd never eat again. But now, after a month's worth of heavy lifting and carrying to whet his appetite (he was almost back to his old crimefighting weight), he was starving. _Amazing, what the mind can become accustomed to. Amazing, how normal can be whatever we want_.

Dan didn't want to look at the billboard, but it was look at that, the stack of corpses, or Walter (who was sat at Dan's side, zealously devouring his own sandwich and growling under his breath at Dan's scrutiny of him). It towered over them, above the tenements, a blond couple dressed in togas looking bravely out to the horizon, the word "Millenium" emblazoned with Veidt's purple "V" beneath their pale, perfect bodies. Literal poster children of the utopia, heralds of Veidt's perfect world.

Only after Walter made a grunt of disagreement did Dan realize he'd spoken aloud. "Not perfect," he said simply, licking crumbs from his fingers.

The sheer obviousness of the statement made Dan perversely amused. "Oh, good _heavens_," he asked with a scandalized flourish, "what_ever_ would make you say that?"

Dan expected commentary on the muggings and rapes that were still perpetrated despite Veidt's insistence otherwise, though the numbers _had_ sharply declined (whispers were bandied about of armed men in black suits dispatching new gangs with lethal force, quiet vigilantes on which the newspapers were remarkably silent). He expected Walter to say something about the essential nature of man, how they were all animals imposing order upon chaos, denying their true natures. Something like that. Instead, Walter scratched the fiery curls at his temple in apparent thought. "Perfect world?" he echoed. "Be taller." He nudged Dan's ribs with his elbow, where he carried the last traces of his retirement weight, and added, "Be prettier."

Dan nearly choked on the last bite of sandwich. He turned to Walter, not believing his ears, but the smaller man's face was studiously blank... except for a tiny upward quirk at the corner of his mouth. Dan grinned in response. "Asshole," he said, shoving Walter's shoulder with one hand.

Then, in the space between one breath and the next, Dan was lying on his back on the clean, cold concrete, an ache blossoming in his chest where Walter's forearm has swept out and knocked him flat. Coughing, he looked up at Walter, red hair burning bright against the gray November sky, and the other man looked just as surprised as Dan. "Sorry," Walter said, sounding almost sheepish. "Force of habit."

And at that, Dan started laughing. He laughed at the thought of how far they had come from Karnak, how far they'd both come, alone and together. He laughed for hope, hope for the world, that there was still hope for it, with or without Veidt's masterful plan to guide it, hope that Laurie and Jon were happy, wherever they were, and that Hollis was in a better place, wherever he was. And he laughed because he was alive, and no matter what happened in the world, he was still _alive_ to have his asshole best friend made snide remarks about his weight and knock him on his ass, and damn, _damn_, it felt good. And out of the corner of his eye, he could see Walter chuckling as well.

"Come on, funny guys," the foreman called with a smile, "back to work. Nice to know there's still stuff to laugh about."

**

A month into the new year, and Dan continued to be surprised by Walter. Or rather, he continued to be surprised at how different Walter was from Rorschach.

The important things remained the same. The passion for justice and what was right, that didn't change. He still had the same deadly efficiency when they went out nights (not on patrol, good heavens, did you think they were vigilantes? Just two gentlemen, armed with advanced gadgetry, out for an occasional stroll in the wee hours of the morning through the less reputable neighborhoods, and if they happened to stumble upon a crime in progress, well then, it was their civic duty to intervene). And his sweet tooth remained, though it had shifted from stolen sugar cubes to old Mrs. Starsky's peach cobbler, which she made for them on a regular basis after Walter had repaired her old sewing machine.

And that was part of the difference. Rorschach had broken fingers. Walter repaired sewing machines. Rorschach had spent the majority of his time scouring sewers and alleys. Walter tinkered with Dan in Hollis' garage, now technically Dan's garage as the old crimefighter had willed it to his protege. Rorschach had read nothing but the _New Frontiersman _with the single-minded fervor of the paranoid. Walter... still read the _New Frontiersman_, but he also read other things, for no reason but enjoyment. And when the nightmares started to really get to Dan, waking him to scream in the hours before dawn, he would curl up in bed as close to Walter as he dared, and his friend would read aloud to him, usually from a Chandler novel. Walter had a horrible reading voice, flat and monotonous, but as Dan lay in bed, the first gray strands of winter light curling over the horizon, the gravelly murmur drained all of his tension away and never failed to send him right back to sleep.

Rorschach had seemed allergic to water. Walter (once the utilities were restored) showered every night.

"Giggling, Daniel," Walter accused over the hiss of the spray, head poking out from behind the curtain, frothy water dripping from dark, limp curls. "Grown man. Should be ashamed. What's so funny?"

Dan spit his mouthful of toothpaste suds into the sink and tried to quiet his laughter. "Oh, nothing, nothing," he said after rinsing his mouth. "I just remembered..." Propping himself with a hip against the sink, he smirked at Walter. "Didn't you once swear up and down that the fluoride in city water was all part of a Zionist conspiracy to give everyone cancer?"

Walter glared at Dan. "Hurm. True then. True now." He ducked back behind the shower curtain.

"Then why are you in there every night?" Dan called through the plastic barrier. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, it's just-"

An irritated growl sounded, echoing slightly off shower tiles, and Dan decided to let it drop. Which made it all the more surprising when Walter spoke again. "Should be dead, Daniel."

The hiss of water was the only noise, drowning out Dan's sharp intake of breath. "Wait, what do you-"

"Should be dead, Daniel," Walter interrupted, still hidden from sight, as if the illusion of concealment was the only thing allowing him to speak. "You, me, Miss Juspecyzk, all of us. Dead in Antarctica. Blood on snow. The end. Veidt never should have let us go, but he did. And we should have..." A sigh, faint but heavy with choices and consequences. "Should be dead, but we're not. Makes this... borrowed time. Surplus. How we use it doesn't matter." He exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. "Cancer least of our worries. Might as well be clean. Might as well-"

The rattle of the shower curtain cut Walter off in mid-sentence as Dan, heart breaking as he had stripped off his sleep clothes, stepped into the shower stall, hot water causing a sudden blush of pink where it hit his chest.

Walter backed as far away as he could, shoulders pressed to tile, fists clenched but not raised, not yet. "What are you doing, Daniel?"

"I'm agreeing with you," Dan replied solemnly, as if he wasn't naked in a shower stall, invading his best friend's near-sacred personal space, flirting with broken bones. "You're absolutely right. We're alive, and we should take all of the opportunities we have. All of them." And he opened his arms in invitation.

Walter glared up at him, hands and teeth locked tight, as if he meant to take Dan apart with the sheer force of his gaze. But then he stood a bit straighter, seeming to come to a decision, and stepped forward, the fury not gone from his face. For a brief, terrifying second, Dan was afraid, afraid that he'd pushed too far, that this was the last straw for their fragile equilibrium and that he would pay for his transgression in bruises and bones. Instead, Walter nearly lunged into Dan, corded arms locking around his taller friend, gripping in something between an embrace and a wrestling hold. Dan could feel his ribcage tighten with the press of it, could feel the aftershocks of the impact rocking him back on his heels, could feel the hot gasp of breath against the hollow of neck and shoulder where Walter had hid his face. And Dan wrapped his own arms around Walter in response, gripping just as fiercely, just as desperately, a pair of shipwreck victims clinging to broken driftwood, praying that it would keep them afloat.

And the water rained down, down, removing the dirt but not the stain.

That night, Walter was almost desperate in his lovemaking. Dan had learned quickly that Walter didn't like to be touched anymore than Rorschach did, at least without permission. He kept his distance even in bed, keeping steadfastly to his own half, waiting patiently for Walter to hear his silent entreaty and grant him permission (and Walter was very good at listening to Dan, catching his eyes across the expanse of mattress, across the breakfast table, across the garage where Walter sat bent over a worktable, before nodding slightly and closing his eyes, arching just the slightest bit as Dan's fingers traced the map of freckles and scars before him).

So Dan had contented himself with always making the first overture, satisfying himself with whatever answer he received, careful not to push any further than their unspoken contract allowed. But this night, Walter had reached across the divide himself, gently tracing the groove his glasses made in the bridge of his nose before kissing him not gently at all. Their coupling was clumsy and awkward, almost vicious in its force, as if Walter had suddenly unlearned all of the finesse and technique he'd picked up over the two months, but Dan (helpless and gasping under the sudden onslaught of sensation, good, too good, too much) couldn't bring himself to complain. And in the quiet aftermath, when he dared to reach across the re-established borders and card his fingers through clear ginger hair without waking the sleeper attached to it, Dan thought about choices. Over their two months of borrowed time, he had been thinking about them a great deal.

Walter had been right: they should have died in Karnak, in the wreckage of Adrian's terrible choice. But they'd all made choices of their own, silence in exchange for peace, and so they lived. Silence in exchange for peace had seemed easy at the time, cheap, a bargain too good to question. But there was no peace; crime still ran rampant in New York City, gangs raping and murdering their way through dilapidated neighborhoods, theives and looters taking from those that had and those that had not alike. A curfew had been implemented at the suggestion of concerned citizen Adrian Veidt, currently in talks about his candidacy for American president. Stories of the black-suited men were growing, passed by word-of-mouth since none of the newspapers would talk about them (except for the _New Frontiersman_; Daniel had actually taken to reading their local news section when Walter was done with it, apologizing to his ancestors all the while). Human nature was performing to type, breaking like weeds through the concrete of peace, ruining the illusion. Veidt's test-tube utopia was slipping through his fingers, and his response was to tighten his grip. _This isn't peace. This is the absence of free will. This is tyrrany_.

And if there was no peace, there would be no silence.

_Tomorrow_, Dan decided. Tomorrow, they would correct the mistake that they had made, that they had all made. Years ago, Dan had secretly created emergency identities for all of the Crimebusters save Dr. Manhattan (even Ozymandias, how ironic that was now). Those false names and a cheap box of hair dye would bear both him and Walter away from this wreckage, out of the city that had forsaken them both, spreading its legs for a lover that choked it to death. They would go west, to the green growing place, wherever it was. They would hide there and, when it was safe, when the trail had gone cold, they would send the truth to New York City, to the United States, to the world, halting the spread of infection before a limb had to be severed. And they would live to correct the compromise that saved their lives, live to see the truth told, and humanity would be free from enforced peace, free to make their own choices and mistakes for good or for ill. Justice would be done.

He raised his hand from Walter's hair, ready to shake him (gently, cautiously) into wakefulness, to tell him about this new and wonderful plan, but Walter made a questioning sigh before settling deeper into the sheets, his untroubled breathing growing heavier, and Dan couldn't bear to wake him. _Tomorrow_, he thought again, closing his eyes with a smile. _I'll tell him tomorrow._

**

The next morning, Dan was horrified to find the bed cold, the closet and pantry raided, the brownstone empty, and Walter gone. He shouldn't have been.

He should have known better.

* * *

Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!


	4. I need you, I don't need you

I don't have much to say at this point, except that this was a pretty emotional ride for me. I hope I did it justice.

* * *

4. _"I need you, I don't need you..."  
_

Gunmetal gray were the streets and skies of the silent city, clouds promising more snow to add to the dusting already there. The cars were silent wraiths in the concrete canals, horns left unsounded. The few people out and about on a weekday morning (and how few of them there were anymore) kept their heads down, not wanting to be seen by the newly erected CCTV poles, not willing to see for fear of being watched in return. And if anyone even noticed the middle-aged man, coatless, bespectacled, wearing inadequate shoes, running down the street to the Gunga Diner and tearing through the trashcan on the opposite corner as if searching for the meaning of life, they did not comment.

_Nothing_. Dan kicked the trashcan with a sneakered toe and bent at the waist, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Walter (_no, not Walter, not then and not now. Rorschach_) had used the garbage can as a mail drop, passing notes and clues without surrendering them to the system. After waking and discovering that his friend had gone, and gone for good (the purple pinstripes and brown trenchcoat vanished from the closet, the sack of chewing sugar taken from the cupboards, the Chandler novel gone from the nightstand), Dan had thrown on what clothes he could manage and went to the only place he knew, the only one he could remember from the world that died. All the way there, he'd prayed for a glimpse of ginger hair to burn away the gray, a scrap of paper wedged into the side of the trash bin with an address in a familiar scrawl, something. Anything. But there was nothing at all.

Dan straightened, peering around him at the empty street corner, at the place where the newsvendor's kiosk had stood, and the cheery purple neon of the Gunga Diner (recently reopened for business, _ob-la-di_, _ob-la-da_, life goes on) and held on to hope for one second longer, for one fleeting glimpse of a small, spare frame in a flapping coat, of a stained green suit jacket under a red-orange flare, something. _Anything_.

But there was nothing at all.

Shivering with cold and loss, Dan wrapped his shirtsleeved arms around himself and made his way back home. And on that long, last mile, with the terrible clarity of hindsight, Dan remembered, and saw, and _understood_.

He thought that he knew why Rorschach had made his choice in Antarctica, his compromise. At first he'd thought that Rorschach had finally seen the big picture, that he was willing to submit to the greater good. Then, he'd thought that he'd done it for Dan, borne of love and friendship to stave away the crushing weight of lonely knowledge (_oh, how vain, how prideful he had been_). He thought that he knew the reasons, never thought to ask, too afraid to ask. But Rorschach had told him his reasons, the first new day.

_"Not stupid, Daniel."_

Rorschach wasn't stupid. He had known that, if he was dead, Veidt would be left unchallenged, unchecked. No one would dare to watch him or question him, even if it needed doing. Rorschach was the only one willing to take on that awful responsibility, to turn his back on the crowd as it fell at Veidt's conquering feet. And to do that, he needed to survive. To compromise. To lie.

And so he lied. There in the owlship, that first new day, he made a decision and took off his face. He took off his pride and fervor and black-and-white view of the world, and put on a mask in place of it (_a mask with the face of a man who died in 1975, oh God, oh God,_) so that no one could know or suspect him, biding his time until Veidt had his back turned, the savior of the world too busy with dreams of conquest to notice the movements of one ordinary man. A man no different from any other, save that he was dead. Rorschach pretending to be Walter Kovacs.

_"Not stupid, Daniel."_

It had been true. It had been, perhaps, the last true thing Rorschach had ever said to him.

Dan had stopped shivering by the time he returned to the brownstone, too numb to shake. He walked mechanically into the kitchen, putting a pot of coffee on to percolate, hands balking at the routine like rusty, untended gears. He reached for the sugar cubes and reminded himself that they were gone before realizing that they weren't entirely gone. There by the canister, in the corner of the tile counter, Dan saw something he'd missed in his initial scramble through the townhouse: a small pile of wrapped sugar cubes, resting on the open pages of a slim hardbacked book.

Dan brushed the cubes away and picked up the volume (a collection of poetry, a gift from a well-meaning aunt, left to molder on Dan's bookshelf without so much as a crack in its spine, the same bookshelf Walter had raided so regularly). And there, in the middle of the page, was a single stanza in a Richard Lovelace poem, bracketed in black ink, a few cramped words scrawled beneath it, punctuated with a symbol Dan had hoped he'd never see again.  
_  
"Yet this inconstancy is such  
As you too shall adore;  
I could not love thee, dear, so much,  
Loved I not honor more."_

**Sorry, Daniel. Force of habit.**

**.][.  
**  
Dan slid to the linoleum floor and wept.

**

Dan wasn't surprised when, that same day, a tall fit man in a black suit arrived at his door, wishing to ask him a few questions "to benefit the public interest." The man asked him about the whereabouts of his known associate, Walter Kovacs, of his own whereabouts, of his plans for travel in the future. He said that he was with the police. Dan kept his own face and voice mannequin-blank, refusing to dignify the lie by pointing it out. The black-suited man was not a policeman, for he did not serve the law. He was not even a vigilante, for he did not serve justice. He was only a mercenary, for he served only Veidt.

Dan told the man everything he knew, which was nothing (he did not know where Mr. Kovacs was, nor did he know when he would return, nor did he know if he would be traveling in the future, good day) and sent the man away. The mercenary said that they would be watching, and Dan believed him. They had likely been watching since they returned from Karnack. Rorschach had undoubtedly known this, but had not told Dan. He might have told Nite Owl, but not Dan.

That night, Dan sat in the Owl's Nest, staring at Archie, wondering if he should take it out and go looking for Rorschach. But the black-suited men were watching, he knew, and they would follow, and even if he did find Rorschach, he would only lead them right to him. So he stayed, wings broken, hiding in the underbrush while the foxes sniffed around, and he did not sleep.

The next day, Dan wasn't surprised when the headline of the _New Frontiersman_ proclaimed "ALIEN INVASION: HOAX!!" The lead story went on for three pages, drawing together threads and segues into a whole, unified picture: the death of the Comedian, the cancer scandals, Dr. Manhattan leaving Earth, the missing writers and artists, Dimension Developments, genetics research, all of it. Dan was impressed with Rorschach's restraint; there was no hint of his friend's usual poetic embellishments on the nature of man, no dark, lush allegories between society and disease, nothing but cold, hard, rational fact. It was beautiful in its sparse elegance, a masterpiece of justified paranoia. And Dan was sure (he hoped against hope, the sensation tightening his throat) that no one would believe him.

The day after that, Dan was very surprised to see the headline of _Nova Express_ denouncing the _New Frontiersman_ as a hatemongering rag, spreading lies and filth about the great Adrian Veidt, who was currently leading Gallup polls by 77% as a replacement for Nixon. Of course, this meant that all of the sane, rational, liberal-minded citizens who read the _Nova Express _picked up an old copy of the _New Frontiersman_, just to see what all of the fuss was about. And then they started talking (and hope died in Dan's chest, the carcass weighting his heart like lead).

Two days after that, the headline of the _New York Gazette_ read "ADRIAN VEIDT: SAVIOR OR MADMAN?" with four pages on the controversy. National talk shows had picked up the story. Gallup polls had dropped to 47%. And in the midst of all this, Dan was not surprised, not at all, to find a single, unremarkable column on page four: the previous night, escaped felon Walter Kovacs, also known as Rorschach, had been shot dead while fleeing police custody. (But they were not policemen, for they did not serve the law...)

Walter Kovacs would have no grave for his enemies to leave roses upon (shipped out to the cremation pits in New Jersey, ashes to ashes, dust to dust), so instead, Dan stripped the cotton sheets from his bed, took them to the tiny patio behind the townhouse with a box of kitchen matches, stuffed them into a metal trashcan, lined the edges with page four of the _Gazette _and struck a match. He stood and watched until the sheets were completely consumed, until not even a single ember glowed amid the remnants, and then he spat into the ashes and walked back inside.

He did not cry. Dan's last tear had been shed days before, for a man who had died more than a decade ago.

**

Dan was surprised when, the next day, Adrian Veidt came to his door, flanked by two black-suited mercenaries, bloodshot eyes hidden behind dark Wayfarers.

"I hope you're happy," he spat in Dan's foyer, black limousine waiting in the street, rage and fatigue and hopeless impotence bleeding into his cultured voice (and, in a previous life, Dan might have sympathized). "I hope that, when this peace falls down around us and when people start killing each other all over again, and you only have yourself to blame for the end of all humanity, I hope that you'll be happy."

And Dan would have smiled at the idea, but he couldn't. The part of Dan that had smiled and argued and caressed freckled skin had been burned in a bundle of bedsheets, had been cried out on a kitchen floor, and this... this was what was left. "The end of humanity was your doing, Adrian," he said simply. "Not mine."

"I was going to _save _humanity, you small-minded... idiot!" Adrian snapped, voice hoarse with too much coffee, eyes burning unseen behind his sunglasses."

How?" Dan asked, pushing despite himself. "By muzzling it? Neutering it? Drugging it into a stupor of fear and lies until they do whatever you tell them to? That was what you were doing, Adrian. The curfew, the mercenaries," Dan's gaze flickered to the black-suited men, "the media control, the manipulation. All of it. You did more than slaughter three million people, Adrian. You took free will from those that survived."

Veidt licked his lips, shoulders hunched. "It... it was only a temporary measure," he insisted. "A stopgap, until things settled down. The people would see, I could make them... but why," he asked aloud, straightening with a mocking scoff, "am I justifying myself to you? You, a flabby footnote in the annals of history? Why should I justify myself to _you_?"

"Because you can't justify to yourself," Dan said without inflection, dimly aware that he should have been insulted. "Can't justify own actions. Can't reconcile. Want justification."

"Dammit, stop talking like that!" Adrian shouted, ripping his glasses off. He looked terrible, chalky white against the dark purple of his suit, the whites of his eyes consumed with red. "It's not true!"

"It is true," Dan replied. "You tried to scare people into world peace. And it worked, for a little while, but then people started adapting, returning to normal, making the wrong choices. So you tried fear again, and it worked. But don't you see? I've lived in your stronger loving world, Adrian. You're not creating world peace, you're stripping away free will, the very thing that makes us human." Dan sighed, making a low sound in the back of his throat. "We all make our own choices. No one gets to choose for others, Adrian. Not even you."

Veidt clenched his perfect teeth, breath hissing between them. "I could kill you," he said darkly, pointing one slim finger, prodding for a reaction, a glimmer of fear, anything. "I could kill you, right here, where you stand."

Dan huffed something that might have been a laugh. "Of course you could. You've killed so many already, shoring up your crumbling foundations. What's one more?"

The finger trembled, the tremors climbing to shake Veidt's shoulders, the blond man suspended on the knife's edge of his own choice. But then he turned, shoved his sunglasses onto his face and nearly ran from the brownstone, mercenaries trailing in his wake down the steps and into the limousine and into the dark city streets. And Dan let out the breath he was holding and shut the door. (_Alive, alive, I am alive, and oh how very bitter it is._)

**

Three years after Veidt's bloodless downfall (none of the _New Frontiersman's_ allegations could be proven, of course, but his image had never recovered), Sam Hollis settled his check at the tiny diner and walked out onto Main Street, tipping his hat to the pretty blonde waitress as he left. Sam was the town mechanic, and a damn good one too, come out to the tiny town of White Deer, Washington, (where the air smelled of green, growing things even in winter) from New York City in 1986, another refugee from a dead world. He was a quiet man, not much for socializing, but the townsfolk knew what 11/2 meant, and so they did not question.

Sam seemed to keep to himself, though he could be seen on nice weekends taking his tired old pickup to the nearby Glacier Falls Nature Preserve, returning on Monday with a sketchbook full of wing structures and foliage patterns. But apart from that (and infrequent jaunts to the market, the hardware store or the diner), Sam kept to his garage or his tiny cabin, his garage because it kept him busy, and his cabin because it was the only place in the world where he could still be Dan Dreiberg.

On those quiet weekday nights, after the mask of Sam Hollis came off for the day, Dan would make a cup of coffee (three sugars) and stand near the window, looking out into the pine forests (not looking at a slim volume of poetry in easy reach on the end table, its spine well-creased with use) and lie to himself. He thought that, if he did it enough, he would start to believe it. He thought that he might believe that his brief liaison with Rorschach (_his love for Walter_) was just an odd version of Stockholm Syndrome, a reaction to the terrible situation they'd been in. He thought that he could say it didn't really mean anything, that what he felt for Laurie and Leslie and a succession of half-remembered lovers had been more lasting, more real than those two borrowed months. He thought that, after three years, he could simply remember Rorschach as a fond memory (_blind whispers over freckled skin in a cold hotel room, kisses sweet with summer peaches, a flat monotone chasing shadows away_) and as nothing else.

He thought he could do that.

He should have known better.

**

_I don't mean to suggest  
that I loved you the best  
I can't keep track of each fallen robin  
I remember you well  
in the Chelsea Hotel  
but that's all  
I don't even think of you that often_

-"Chelsea Hotel No. 2," Leonard Cohen

* * *

Comments are greatly appreciated!


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